“I was in a bit of a rough spot. Shiftin’ jobs, you could say. But, uh…” Astrid laughs, whizzing Harriet through yet another hall. "... The Reeves don’t take kind to, um, flexible labour.”

The two women near a thick steel door, surrounded by more of those large windows. Harriet takes a moment to look around. The desks and offices have faded away, replaced by clean tiles, more large windows.

“But Soteris… well. When he started Polyphron, there weren’t much need for looks. Just enuff to hire some Latvians livin’ on their screens an’ a cheap microwave to cook ramen for the lot. But as it grew, he needed investors. Buzz. Those perma-drugged, quirky California types. An’ ‘at’s when he reached me. A beautiful, God-given, extraordinarily desperate designer.”

“Designer?” Harriet squints. “Of what?”

“The Ares gates?” Astrid leaves her hand on the door handle, her eyes fanning around. “This?”

Harriet frowns. "Ya designed his office an' his weapons?"

“It’s not a weapon, it’s a gate ‘at reads blood.”

"That's jes' the lie they tell 'em ta-"

"I don't lie." Astrid's voice grows suddenly stern. "I tell stories. 'At's all design is, 'Arriet. Stories wiffout words. An' the one I tell wiff Ares is true; it keeps people safe. You've made your own stories, too, I'm sure. Even though you pretend you ain't got nuffin' worth tellin'."

They stare at each other like that for a moment. But eventually, Harriet exhales. "How does someone go about designin' tech an' furniture?"

"I'm a bit of a Renaissance man."

"Aren't we all?"

Astrid sighs, and squeezes the handle. “Degree in Business Marketing, and after, set stages on West End. Roundabout career, I know, but the Court’s got a shitty non-compete, so the Blood Pact ended all ‘at eivver way. Still, won’t complain. Decent pay, not god-awful hours, the fahkin’ king of a benefits package, and…”

She slowly pulls the door back.

“... Your Keeper lets me build shit like this.”

The first thing that hits Harriet are the scents. Flowers, fruits, oils, and more mixtures than she could find on an artist’s palette. The hall is split in half, colours merging around three doors. The left side, living space, looks much like the offices: white walls, hard floors, sleek black furniture. There’s a plump leather couch, a gargantuan telly, and all the excess of modernity she's come to despise. But the other side - the kitchen, the dining table - feels like a blast to the past.

Except that it’s a past that isn’t hers.

The mahogany’s been replaced by birch and holly, all painted across the walls with stripes of bright and vibrant blue. It’s no less wealthy, of course. Striking to eyes so used to cheap hotels and bargained furniture. But it is humbler. Calming, and warm.

And in the corner, a Classical statue. A woman, with a veil over her hair and her figure hidden by sweeping robes. Her face is beautiful, but mature, her whole body stooped over a quartzite fireplace, her marbled hands just beyond the reach of the flames. Or… wait. No. Not real flames. There’s no smell, or smoke, or chimney. Harriet’s staring at the screen of a fire.

A fire that does only what Soteris wants of it. Give off heat. And light.

“So....” Astrid turns around, gesturing wildly. “Pretty cool, right?"

Harriet gives an awkward smile, not quite ready to appraise her new cell. But Astrid’s all energy, diving into the couch before digging through a large crate filled with plastic. Records. “Need anyfin’, luv? AC, mood lightin’, or maybe somefin’ from ‘ere? Boss got all sorts of oldies.”

Harriet rolls her eyes. “Yeah, alright, let’s put on some Stephen Foster then.”

“Who?”

Harriet smirks. But the smile vanishes as she studies Astrid's fingers. Once again, they move a bit too quickly as they flit through the vinyls. Blurred. “Yer usin’ powers.”

“Wazzat?”

“Yer fingers. They blur.”

“Oh, yeah,” Astrid giggles. “Superspeed! Pretty nifty, 'aveta say. There’s some fancy Latin name for it, I know, but I don’t really-”

“Ya sure we should be usin’ powers in the open like this?”

Astrid snorts. “Who’s gonna stop us? The cops?”

“Well, ya are in the middle a’...” Harriet pauses, pondering the wisdom in saying it. “... Reeve Central.”

“Tch. On the streets, maybe. But Court don’t give two shits what ‘appens up 'ere.” She finally fishes one out. ‘Songs About Jane.’ “And you oughta be glad for ‘at, luv, or ‘at Deputy you left staked would already be fahkin’ knockin’.”

Harriet tenses. Cappie. It’d been a while since she thought of him. But he’d gone through this same process, hadn’t he? As hard to believe as that was. How did he keep his pride, through all this? How did he stare into that bastard FitzGerald’s eyes without snapping anyone’s neck?

She’s interrupted by music. A simple guitar twang, at first, but then a rising beat that crackles through the flat’s many speakers. Astrid starts swaying to the music, whispering the lyrics under her breath.

“... the fire burning in her eyes, the chaos that consumed my mind…”

Harriet leaves her to her musings, walking instead towards the large windows. These were much like the others with a big something hanging ominously above them. But right now, she’s more concerned with her own reflection in the glass, the growing bruises, the mangled hair, and the thick black collar, taut across her neck. He ordered it to be tight, and tight it was; she feels it every time she swallows. But when she pulls it down, sees the writhing words that seem imprinted on her skin…

… no. No no no. Focus, focus. She's been kidnapped, right? Soteris made that very clear, and all the luxuries of the world won't change it. She needs to think, she needs to plan. There were several locked doors on their walk, tucked away in hallways Astrid always sped from. Utility rooms, on paper, but if the Sov cunt’s lair’s right here, what are the chances-

She's cut off. Through the glass, Harriet sees a flare of light. It dies off, then comes back, then dies off again. Harriet eventually turns around, casting a glance at the girl half-slid off the couch. “The hell are ya doin’?”

“I’m wavin’ me magic wand!” Astrid waves a small remote towards the fire with the statue. “What’s ‘at spell in H.P.? Lumos!?”

The 'fire' roars to life, to Astrid's audible glee. Harriet scowls. “Ya’d think Soteris could afford a real fire.”

“And be afraid in his own home? Piss on ‘at.”|

“I can’t imagine most Elders would approve of that cowardice.”

“But that’s just it. We ain’t Elders.” Astrid stands up, waves around the room. “Forget roarin’ hearths and spooky castles and hordes a' fahkin' bats. This is the future! We're twenty-first century vampires!”

“How old are ya, Astrid?”

Astrid blinks. Counts fingers. “Twenty-ei-... no. Twenty-nine! Lighted six years ago, so you can do the maffs.”

Harriet looks at her like she sprouted wings.

“What? Don’t-” Astrid huffs. “You’d fink the Unbound would be less of a stick-in-the-mud.”

“The Court’s lettin’ ya design weapons when yer twenty-nine?”

“Gates. We've been over this."

"So ya actually believe all the lies."

“He don’t lie when it's important.”

“Show me.” Harriet pauses. Astrid seems legitimately taken aback. “... This tour, the nice room, it’s s’posed ta sell me on Polyphron, innit? So don’t show me the fraud. Show me somethin’ that works.”

“‘I’m not tryin’ to sell-”

“Don’t ya wanna impress me?”

The gamble works. Astrid bites her lip, looks around. For Harriet, it’s a half-truth, at least. She wants to see Soteris’ inventions. Get a full stock of the man, before she sics the Unbound on him and lets a bullet sever his head. Now, Astrid probably wouldn’t agree to that…

… but it’s not like Harriet’s going to tell her.

The young vampire heaves a long sigh. “Alright!” She slides up from the couch and grabs her leather bag. “Vamonos!”

“Wh-where are we goin’?”

“His latest invention.” Astrid points down the hall. “Your bedroom.”

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Once upon a time, Harriet attended Aubrey Keaton’s lectures. They were horrid affairs; hours-long rants about historical materialism or how to best kill scabs. “The Falsehoods of Capitalist Architecture,” at first, seemed to fit the trend. Boring, droning, a bit too open in its violence. But one point, between the rants about landlords and single family housing, stood out. capitalists always act with profit in mind, and that bleeds into their buildings themselves.

Take a fast food joint. Dirty, loud, with garish colours and uncomfortable seats. It’s built to be unappealing, because they want to sell, and one's peaceful dinner gets in the way of the next customer. Or a supermarket. It’s not coincidence that they get so maze-like, or that all the treats are crammed in the final aisles. Harriet had been so stunned when she learned. How deeply the claws of the monster cut, in every possible corner. But why is she thinking about that now?

Because her bedroom, her cage, is so unbelievably calming.

It’s a dark, cosy space. The windows are omnipresent, filling totally one side, but all their light is hidden by curtains, or devoured by richly-coloured walls. There’s more wood in this room than the rest of the penthouse combined: on the floor, in her furniture, and the intricate designs of the four-post bed. She’s surrounded by bookshelves and drawers, a jewellery box, a vanity. But it’s all simple and modest and clean. Not the ornature of a rich manufacturer, but the beauty of a single craftsman, whose skill has been built over dozens of years.

There’s a banjo on the roughshod pillows. Reed baskets, plaid blankets, and a dozen dime novels with musty old pages. Harriet sniffs the air. Hay. Straw. Hints of pine. And running literally, through it all, ia gentle stream of water. Clear and crystalline, it starts parallel to the walls, but cuts across the centre floor, like a miniature river.

“I know.” Astrid stands right over it, a hand on her hip. “It’s somefin’.”

Harriet sticks her fingers in the trickle, tingling at the sense of cold. How they arranged all the piping to do this… she doesn’t want to know. The cost of this room alone could feed hundreds of starving families. She looks into another room, bright lights shining over white tiles. “That the wash?"

“Full tub and shower. Marble counters, cutting edge radio.” Astrid whistles. “You’ll ‘ave to share it, I’m afraid. Even bossman’s money got limits. But-”

“Share?” Harriet rushes to the door, leans over and peers at the other side. Astrid’s right about its opulence, at least. But Harriet’s far more focused on the darkened room at the other end of the bathroom, half-covered by its mirror-image door.

Three rooms. Hers. The bathroom. So the other is...

“H-he’s… he’s not sleepin' with...?”

“Told you, ‘Arriet,” Astrid smiles sweetly. “Not that kinda guy.”

Harriet breathes. For what feels like the first time in hours. She grabs her heart, and just brings it all in. A weight lifting from her shoulders.

“Honestly, girl, I love the vibe,” Astrid struts towards the bed, flitting through the many things. “Do you actually play the banjo?”

No. Well, yes, but she hadn’t in years. Yet somehow, Soteris knew. Just like the books. Just like her name. He had to learn from somewhere, but how? She had covered her tracks. She had buried her past. Nobody but Red even knows-

“There we are!” Astrid bounces back, another little remote in her hands. “Arright! So. ‘Arriet. You see this, you fink, ‘this is all fine,’ right? No questions wiff the bed?”

Harriet blinks. “Uh… what’s with the plaid blankets-”

“Your little curse!” Astrid points the remote at her. “Can’t sleep in the same place twice! You sure it hadn't crossed you, silly goose? Seems like a pretty big fing to not remember!”

Oh, Harriet remembered, alright. She just opted to not tell. For one, she won’t be staying around long enough for it be relevant. And for another… she never actually figured out what happens if she’s locked inside for two days, what the Wilds would do to the men who’d try and stop it?

But that sounds like the perfect sort of problem for someone who claims to be her better.

Harriet scowls. “Soteris mentioned logistical issues. This it?”

“Spic an’ span.” Astrid snaps. “We had to move quick, so the work’s a bit shoddy. Poor engineer had to stay overnight. But the concept!”

Harriet starts. The ground beneath her rumbles. She notices movement, spinning gears and strained pulleys, half-hidden by the posts. Her bed starts lifting, a whole foot in the air, and she swears that the wood below it starts to shift.

“Ya coulda jes’ brought me outside,” Harriet offers.

The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

Astrid gives her a look that’s completely incomprehensible.

Harriet stops. Marches towards the bed and its strange little system. The wood floor has slid out, but a steel frame still remains, with padding. Harriet reaches out and touches it just as the bottom begins to sink. But then she realises its not padding at all.

“Soil.”

The frame winches its way to some hidden room below.

“... Ya filled the floorboards with soil?”

“Five square metres.” Astrid grins. “Each cluster taken ten miles away from the next. ‘Can’t change her home’ the bossman said. ‘But we can change the home she sleeps under.’”

Harriet’s stunned. Another frame rises to link with the floor, its own dirt unperturbed. They all click together with a loud clang, before the bed starts to lower back to its original place, spotless through the ordeal.

Harriet’s breathing picks up. “But… the weight of all those pulleys. Yer supports are too weak. Whole thing gonna cave in-”

“The whole penthouse is pillared against the 29th floor, Ms. da Vinci,” Astrid replies. “Been that way since Soteris commissioned old Hestia.”

Hestia. The marble statue, and the project, then. Harriet supposes it would make sense for Soteris to be that eccentric. Astrid takes her silence as a win.

“Change the soil once a week, have someone come up to fix supports… and whaddaya know?" She beams "You can sleep in the same sheets, every single night.”

Harriet scowls, pressing into the bed with her hand. She can’t deny that it’s clever. Changing soils… why had she never thought of that? It saves so much trouble; no more wandering, no more hotels, no more final hour of every night covering windows with blackout curtains. When was the last time she could rearrange furniture? Decorate a wall? Leave a mark on her own space, just like…

… Just like he’s made a space for her.

Why? Why not lock her in a closet or chain her up to some basement? It would change nothing; God knows its what the Unbound expect. Maybe its part of his opulence. The noble wannabe whose servants live like kings. Or… or maybe...

If Astrid notices her musings, she doesn’t seem to mind. She’s bouncing around the different ornaments and knickknacks, always asking if Harriet likes them but never stopping to hear the answer. She’s something else, too. Impossibly genuine. Even when she spills out lies.

Harriet bites her lip. This isn’t the Court she was told about. This isn’t the Court she knew. What is she dealing with? What is she fighting? She doesn’t know, and in not knowing, there is panic. What if she can’t predict him? Anything?

Astrid heels loudly clacking across the hall. She’s still droning, still smiling, that brilliant spark within her eyes. “Now the closet, whew. It ain’t filled yet, but God, when you see the size of the damn fing…”

But when the door opens, she stops. Leaving it open only partway.

“... Oh.”

Astrid’s expression seems to have vanished.

Harriet approaches, curiosity and confusion plain. Astrid turns back, grows pale, and then springs into action, slamming the door shut with her back.

“Tour’s over.”

“What?” Harriet shifts angles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nuffin’.” Astrid shakes her head. “Nuffin’ to be finkin’ bout.”

“Why would I be thinkin’ ‘bout it?”

Astrid flinches. Harriet grows stern. Her stance harsh, her steps direct. Astrid might be a few inches taller, but she very quickly shrivels back. “‘Arriet, please. Just trust me this one time. You don’t wanna-”

She gasps. Harriet’s sprung forward, her hand over Astrid’s, slamming it into the door. The wood creaks. Astrid’s breath grows ragged, and she starts blubbering excuses.

“There’sbeenamistakeThere'sbeenamistakeYouweren’tsupposedtoseethemonthefirst-”

“Astrid.” Harriet’s voice is like gravel. “Look at me.”

The woman looks. Her eyes pleading.

Harriet snarls. “Step. Away."

Astrid’s face gives every indication that she wants to say ‘no.’ For a moment, Harriet thinks she’ll actually fight. But then Astrid closes her eyes.

And it turns out, despite her those protestations, she really did listen to all those stories about Harriet.

She weasels her way around Harriet, apologising under her breath. The Unbound ignores it. Takes the handle. Opens the door.

Her eyes grow wide.

On the one hand, there's relief. Vindication. For once, she finally sees something she expects from the Court. But that tiny victory is drowned by a sea of windchimes and white clouds.

Soteris’ real dream is displayed on hundreds of hangers before her.

They're just clothes. Ties and shirts, a dozen heels, socks of every length. They come in every colour: whites and blacks, reds and greens, all gleaming like gemstones beneath the golden light. But they aren’t just clothes, are they? Clothes never are.

The heels are always long. Four inches, at minimum. She sees hordes of lingerie, all lace, all revealing. The shirts have long v-necks, the tights are linked to garters. And the skirts. God. Thin, tight, and short to a pair. Harriet tries to find pants. Or coveralls. Or anything that won’t betray herself the moment she bends over.

There’s nothing. Nothing. One outfit is already laid out. Chosen. A black pencil skirt. A white button-down. But the buttons don’t button enough, the skirt ending before even her thigh. The outfit couldn’t cover her bra. Much less… much less…

Her face is frozen. Her eyes are unseeing. Astrid takes a cautious step closer, biting her lip, the guilt on her face plain. She starts to reach out. “‘Arriet…”

Harriet springs back, takes the hand, much to Astrid’s shaking fear. studies the darker skin. The pink fingernails. The many bracelets and rings. There’s something black, beneath her wrist-scrunchie. Fluid and writhing. Her own mark.

Astrid sobs. “It wasn’t me.”

Harriet looks her in the eyes. Her hand slowly shifts down.

And then she pulls on the wrist. Fast and hard. Until she heads Astrid's bone crack.

“YAAAAARRGHHH!” Astrid stumbles, but Harriet’s faster. She seizes the woman’s neck, slams her head into the wall. There’s a thud, more split skin, a sudden cloud of plaster. Then Harriet’s running, from the bedroom. From the fireplace. Right through the steel door.

“PROTOCOL 19-C!” She’s only three steps down when the space floods with red light and robotic speakers. “PROTOCOL 19-C! THIS IS A CLASS A EMERGENCY. ENABLING FURTHER SECURITY-”

Harriet screams. An alarm starts to sound. She’s sprinting past the desks as fast as her legs can carry her. Not thinking, not watching. Her fangs dig into her lips, the hunger bright and furious. The Wilds is trying to claim her. They both want the same thing.

Gun. Gun. GUN!

“PROTOCOL 19-C! THIS IS A CLASS A EMERGENCY.” Harriet takes such a sharp turn that she nearly stumbles. A door, beneath the red. Without the emergency lights, she’d have missed it completely. And that must be the point. Yes. Yes!

“- FURTHER SECURITY -”

She sprints into the door. When that doesn’t work, starts clawing madly at its handle. She can barely keep her instincts in check to grab it. She pulls. And pulls. And pulls. It’s locked. IT'S LOCKED!

“NO!” She slams her elbow against it, kicks at the door. “nononononoNONO NO NO NOOOO!”

“PROTOCOL 19-C! "

She’ll kill the wizard first. A shot to the head, and his Oathsworn pet after! She imagines their blood on the walls. Bits of brain, bits of skull! She’s split the skin of her elbow. There’s a trail of blood. Paradox. It can make that handle gone. But he’s poisoned her mind. He’s stolen her strength. He - God. She sees him. That smirk. That voice. That arrogant flame in his golden eyes.

“PROTOCOL 19-C!”

“I’LL FUCKING KILL YOU!"

The air crackles with rogue aether.

Her eyes spark. She levels her hand. In an instant, her mind explodes. Her vision lost in rending pain. But Harriet doesn’t care. Grits her teeth, forces through it. How many has she killed? Will she let a fucking spell stop her!?

“PROTOCOL 19-C”

Sparks fly from her hand.

“THIS IS A CLASS 5-”

“RAAAAAAGGGHHHHHH!!!!!!”

The door flings back. Collides with a monitor in a shower of light. Harriet bursts in, looks around. Computers and cabinets and desk chairs, just like the rest of this cage! But she finds it, she finds it, a glass display, on the wall. There’s vests and stakes and a fireman’s axe and-

She runs to the desk. Pulls out its chair. Holds it over her head, and charges, screaming. She throws. It falls. She stops. The gun. It's there, it's there! Right in her hands.

Her feet bleed on a floor filled with broken glass.

Beretta 92G-SD. Semi-automatic. Too heavy to be the nine-model. Its black metal is cold, warmed by growing, glowing blood. She unloads the magazine. 9mm. Fifteen rounds. She shakes a single one out, and lets it roll in her hand. Forty calibre. She breathes.

God gave her a forty calibre.

Harriet starts to cry. Presses her skin against the metal and lets it all out. She hugs herself, hyperventilates, and squeezes and squeezes and squeezes until she feels safe. The windchimes start to die. The white clouds start to fade. Until-

“PROTOCOL 19-C! PROTOCOL -”

A bullet pierces the computer’s motherboard. The lights dim. The voice stops. And Harriet turns to flee.

The next few minutes feel like hours, and also pass instantly. She bounds through the halls and the windows and the hundreds of desks, but there’s no sign of Astrid. Or Randall, or Addana, or anyone. She grips her gun with both hands, checking every door, every corner. How she wants to fire it now, smell the smoke, obliterate everything, but she won’t.

Not while she can breathe. Not while she can think.

She passes the breakroom where Astrid gave her that cookie. In a distant corner, she sees that beer-filled minibar. But she needs to find stairs. Stairs to the end. No lift this time, God, has she learned from that. Shit, where the fuck are they? That alarm blared for minutes. Are they planning for something, or are they just scared!?

She won’t hunt them. Not without support. Not without more firepower. Right now her plan is to sprint down and down and down. Shoot open a window, and leap from the first storey. Sure, she’ll break her leg, but she knows what she’ll find on the ground. She’ll contact Red, call in Keaton, call in the whole goddamn movement!

She stops. She’s by the bar, now. Checking the cupboards with her gun for any hidden fools. But when she looks up, she sees an old grey door, with just as old signage. Emergency stairs.

She starts to run. Blood-sweat on her brow. Squeezing her Beretta-

“Freeze.”

It hits her mid-stride. Her hands in the air, feet awkwardly planted on the ground. But she can’t move. Can’t correct. Even her eyes are still, forced to look directly in front of her.

She hears his footsteps. Those sharp leather shoes on the clean tile floor. His voice is louder than it should be, like her body’s drawn to it. “Move again.”

BLAM! A bullet whizzes into the wall. Cracks a bit of glass. She doesn’t turn until she’s fired it, but when she does, she smiles. She knows her guess wasn’t that far off, because he’s pressed his hand against one ear.

“Let me go,” she hisses. “Or the next one causes more than ringin’.”

Soteris exhales. “I suspected it would come to this.”

Harriet lifts her gun. The ‘Keeper’ doesn’t flinch. They stare each other down, lights in both their eyes.

“Cheap tricks. Base violence. They were never going to break your pride. But they should have.” Soteris scowls. “Do you honestly still believe you have any power in this situation? That you’re in any place to make demands?”

“Don’t FUCKIN’ TEMPT ME!” Harriet growls, cocks the gun. “I’ve seen yer clothes, ya Greek cunt! What the fuck are ya tryin’ ta make me? Yer office slut? A dressed-up whore!?”

“Language. I want nothing more than an obedient servant.”

“I will end this ENTIRE FUCKIN’ COURT!” She bares her teeth, revealing fangs. “Ya’ve lost, Soteris. Yer brains ta go along with yer mind. Ahahaha! Let's see yer fuckin' gizmos block-"

She stops. Blinks. Tries to hold the trigger again. Her fingers slip right out of it, finding no surface, like it’s been covered in oil. Her breathing picks up. She curses, shakes the gun, and tries to ignore his grin.

“Need a friend?”

“GO TA HELL!” She fires into the ceiling, smashes a light, hears the warm shards fall around her. But when she points at him again… klik klik klik klik! “What the fuck is happening!?”

“Clause 3c of the Blood Pact. ‘The Allod is strictly forbidden from harming her new owners.’ If you had been more polite, Fireside, we would have read over that.”

"You fuckin' bitch!"

“I don’t need the Keeping to conquer you." Soteris smirk. "But it does have advantages.”

She snarls. Her skin pulled back, her eyes wild. “I have friends. Powerful ones, who will chew up yerself and yer fishstick of a wizard like the fuckin’ toys ya are! YA HEAR ME!? I’ve murdered children! More scores of people than years ya’ve been fuckin’ born! If ya think there’s anythin’ that is gonna stop me-”

“Silence.”

Her breath cuts off. She frowns. Every time she tries to speak, her tongue fails, and the words don’t form. The most she can manage are grunts. Soteris gives her a withering smile.

“There. I’ve stopped you already.”

She growls. A guttural, animal sound that makes Soteris hiss. He’s walking towards her, in slow, measured beats. Instinctively, she steps back. With every second, he seems taller. With every second, his eyes glow.

“You’ve learned nothing. No matter how many times I show you, no matter how many times I beat you, you still think you have control. You still think you can win! Take a step!”

She does. In a startled, jerky motion, like a puppet dancing on strings. Her growl becomes a whimper, to clear Soteris' clear thrill.

“Another. Another. ANOTHER! March to me like Gawen Rowe’s little soldier!"

There’s a squeak. Patterns swirl in Soteris’ eyes as he watches the woman walk. It’s a monstrosity of a sensation. Aether pulling her muscles, forcing her into straight, symmetrical lines. She can barely twist back. Each step meets more resistance. Her eyes flood with fear

“Stand at attention."

Her hands fling to her sides. Her feet shift to perfect right angles, like Pa always taught her.

“That's a good girl." He grins. “Hold out your arm. Show me the Beretta.”

“Mmmmm!!!” She starts losing it. Furiously shaking her head even as her body hoists it up. Her breaths are ragged, her heart racing. She’ll kill him! SHE’LL KILL THEM ALL!

He looks triumphant as he strolls over. Lifts his palm until it’s just a few inches below hers. “Do you want to keep this gun?”

She can't respond. She's nearly breaks into tears. Pleading with her uncaring body to please please please just pull away!

“Unfortunate.” He replies. “Because I order you to put it gently in my fingers.”

She’s never tried so hard, in all her life, tried to not move something this hard. And it fails. She feels the weight leave her hand.

And with it, everything.

Soteris unlatches the gun, throws its magazine to the floor. “If it helps, this wouldn’t have stopped me. I don’t store weapons here that can actually pierce my skin. You’d need a higher calibre.”

Soteris has looped a finger around her collar, pulling her in until their foreheads touch. She smells the mint in his breath as he smiles.

“Now let me show you what power looks like.”

He slams her back into a pillar.

“MRM!!” Harriet struggles. Kicks and shoves and bites the air. Soteris snarls, his fangs showing as he squeezes her neck. Hard and tight, so that the mere shock makes her sputter and choke. She knows it won't kill her. He knows it too.

But it doesn't stop the sensation.

“Go on!” He shouts in her face. “Act like a bitch! Tell us what we already knew: that you are an animal! Rabid, feral, and biting at the bars of her cage! It! Will! Not! WORK!”

He presses with more and more force as her body shifts and jerks and recoils so that she never lands a kick.

“The Court needs you. Polyphron needs you. Project Hestia needs you, and I will give them all what they need! A loyal Kept. A subservient Kept. A Kept so knowing of her place that she will not breathe without checking first with her master!”

The anger’s gone now. It’s replaced by something cutting and twisting. This is the man who bought her those clothes. This is the man who gave her a collar. She claws at his hands, desperate for reprieve. Tears in her eyes.

“You will be tamed like man tames any animal: a test of wills. And I promise, McClintock, my will is far stronger!” He bashes her into the wall. “Don’t like my tone? I don’t care. Hate your clothes? I don’t care. Baulk at the thought of being my ‘office slut’? I do not FUCKING CARE! A horse learns to not buck its rider! A horse learns to wear its saddle! You will dress in those clothes and smile at my tone and bow at each of my orders because they will mould you into place, you have no choice, and you have no means to fucking stop me!”

Harriet wilts. The grunts are less violent, and the struggle less forceful. But doesn’t Soteris doesn’t stop. He doesn't relent. He keeps squeezing, and shouting, the veins beneath his skin bright.

“You had one chance, and that chance was spoiled! Now you cannot run. Now you cannot fight. All you can manage are pathetic insults muted with a snap of my finger!" He snarls. "You will not resist this anymore than a man resists drowning. You will struggle and flail and sink all the same. Because you are my whore! You are my slave! You are only what I deem you to be, and without me, you are nothing!"

She's whimpering now. Pleading like an animal. Barely holding together.

"But prove me wrong. Prove that you can fight. Prove that you're superior. I will let you go, right now, if you can open those lips and say a single thing.”

She tries. God, does she try. But her tongue constantly trips, her mind keeps going foggy. She can’t stop him. Her powers. Her wits. Her guns. She’s tried them all, and still she can’t stop him. She wants to be small. She wants to go home.

“Inevitable.” He releases her neck, and she slumps to the floor. “What more is there to say?”

She buries her face in her hands, and curls up in a little ball. She’d been feeling this fear all night. This sorrow. This aching, heart-wrenching dread. But it had been silenced by her hope, stymied by her anger. Now?

…

The mark is never coming off. The others never found a way. That ink-black spot will dwell on her neck for the rest of unlife.

Forever.

Soteris watches her melt into a puddle. Checking his watch and straightening his suit. “I’ll keep you in silence for the next twenty-four hours. A fair punishment for this tantrum. And I’ll have to speak with Randall about adding new security measures. This won’t be repeated, educational though it may be.”

She's thinking about little things. Cheap motels. Shitty dates. The Highland forests, the shooting ranges, the drinks at Spoons and movie nights. They’re gone. Gone. Gone.

With a little stack of papers, they've signed a life away.

“Today, I am merciful. I could punish you for the swears, or, heh, how utterly you’ve ruined your promise to Astrid. But I won't.” He slowly kneels down. “Punishments won’t get us any further today. But don't be fooled into thinking that I will tolerate this behaviour."

She hears the words like they’re behind a dozen walls. Her eyes are quiet, pleading, and listless as she turns them towards him. Perhaps Soteris takes some thrill from that, but she doesn’t last long enough to check. She’s slipping away. To the windchimes and the white clouds and the memories of a brighter world.

“I will see you, cleaned and uniformed, tomorrow at 9 PM. Until then, sleep.”

Her eyes close. Her body falls. The rest is calm and dreamless.

If only waking would be the same.